


law, conned

by peachyteabuck



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Black!Reader - Freeform, Cunnilingus, F/M, Hate Sex, Oral Sex, Reader-Insert, Switch Steve, Talks of Colonialism, poc!reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 19:31:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16838980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: to try and convince steve rogers to sign the sokovia accords, tony stark brings in you to convince his counterpart.





	law, conned

As you step into the lobby of the large building, a man comes up next to you. It’s not the one you were expecting, but the name on his chipped golden plate is one you still recognize from several email exchanges.

He hands you a tacky, bright orange badge that rests snugly inside a pristine plastic holder. It lists your name and some number with some unidentified purpose over a barcode with another, smaller set of numbers under it. “That’s for bathrooms, some conference rooms, and elevator access…” he explains. You follow behind him slightly to his right, listening to his obviously-parroted instructions as you step into a mirrored elevator. Right before it gets to one of the top floor, the man turns to you looking stern. “Listen, I don’t mean to put a lot of pressure on you, but you’re our last chance.”

You smirk, stepping ahead of him as the elevator _dings_ and the door opens. “Don’t worry, I get that a lot.”

The man, Happy, barks out a laugh. “I assume you’re good at this, then?”

You shrug. “Beating down colonialist douchebags? Hell yeah I am.”

“Good for us then,” His head jerks in the direction of one of the several hallways branching from the small elevator area. “Conference room three.”

“Thank you.”

The windows and doors are a purposefully fogged glass. As you pass several other conference rooms you notice they’re all empty, desolate, bare. When you flash the card in front of a reader, all you get is the sound of the door unlocking before you step into what might be the most important discussion of your career.

One man, Stark, is standing at the head of the table, papers strewn across it as if he just threw them. The other, Rogers, is sitting closer to the middle with his own papers neatly stacked into small piles. They’re both silent. As you lock eyes with both of them, you age back years and years to the time when you had your first professor who was a black woman.

_You’re in a giant lecture hall, but the emptiness allows your small voice to echo off the cinder block walls. The woman thirty years your senior is standing in front of a giant stack of papers she was planning on handing out that day during class, her hips leaned against the top of the table._

_She had asked you to come in early at the end of the last class, so you showed up to the regular hall thirty minutes early with your notebooks and pens. As she wrote on the whiteboard she turned to you and gave you the best piece of advice you’ve ever heard:_

_“Listen,” You can still hear her deep, tired voice. “There will be a lot of times in your life that you will be the only dark-skinned woman in a room filled with white men. They will try to talk down to you, invalidate your expert opinion, and everything else I’m sure you’ve experienced in your short life._

_The only thing you can do is stare them in the eye and use your voice as a switchblade. In these parts, kid,” she turns around, deep Southern accent seeping through like water between the fingers of cupped hands. It was natural, code-switching like the flip of a switch. “We ain’t got nothin’ but each otha. You gotta look those men in they eyes and make ‘em scared. Make ‘em scared to judge you or dismiss you or anythin’ else they plan on doin’. You special, baby, don’t let no white man tell you othawise.”_

“Okay,” you take your copy of the Accords from your briefcase and slide it towards the two of them. “This is my annotated version. Blue sticky notes mean there’s a relevant court case or other legal statute, green is a historical event, and purple is where a new legal territory would be explored.”

Steve, the one closer to the copy, grabs it and begins flipping through it. You try not to stare at him reading your notes as you bring out the next thick stack of papers.

“These are letters from several foreign nations, the EU, NAFTA, WTO, and several U.S. territories,” you drop the thick binder, and Steve flinches at the _smack_ it makes as plastic hits glass. “And this is the write-up of a simulation that was done by an international stats, poli sci, ocn law, and other cool smart students of what would happen if the Accords were put in place verses if they weren’t.”

Another thick binder hits the table. Steve flinches again, but not as badly as the first time. Still, his eyebrows furrow and his hand curls in front of his mouth. Tony remains at the end of the table, smirking. As they both look at the mountain of binders stuffed with hundreds of thousands of words of legal jargon, the man seems to think he’s won.

You move sit down across from Steve, who looks defeated. For a second, you feel bad. But only for a second.

“Why won’t you sign the Accords?” you ask, voice purposefully softened.

“Restrictions on the Avengers would lead to complete global havoc, it’s best if we act independently. It’s just the right thing,” Steve says. He voice is low, small. He sounds like he’s pleading with someone, and you’re not having it. This isn’t a fucking five year old who’s been caught riding his bike without a helmet or punching a kid on the playground. This is the future of the world you two are talking about here, not some small problem that’ll go away once you get out a time out or something. You and the structure of geopolitics you try to keep in check don’t have time for reactive punishments.

Bitterness and sarcasm drip from your mouth, the words like blood splattered across grimy, off-white bathroom walls. “You know who else thought they were doing the right thing?” Steve looks up at you but doesn’t speak. “The white people who ran the slave trade, the white people who slaughtered ninety percent of the Indigenous population of North America, the white people who colonized Palestine, the white people who scrubbed little Indigenous children in Australia and North America and South America of their language and cultural identity and ancestral pride.”

Steve’s nostrils flare as a sign of his covert rage.“This will restrict the entire team in a way that will hinder us from ever becoming any sort of positive entity in this world ever again,” he tells you, slamming his pointed finger into the thick slab of pristine white paper. “And you’ll both have to go down in history with that on your conscience.”

You roll your eyes, sitting tall on the other side of the long conference table. “You’re wrong, but go off.”

Tony snorts a little, hiding it behind a small cough. He doesn’t say anything - he knows that you’ve reclaimed this fight to be between you and Steve, not Steve and him. Tony’s place is sitting at the head of the table, completely silent.

Steve ignores the childish action. “What do you mean by that?”

“Pretty much everyone in the world understands that Americans don’t come with a smile and a hug, they come with a stick,” you say flatly. “And a frown.”

Tony laughs a bit. Steve’s jaw clenches and he stands up, facing the view of New York. For a moment your mind falters - fuck, _he’s so hot and muscular._ You may disagree with his politics, but you don’t disagree with that ass. And that face. And those arms.

Focus, you idiot.

“This is different-” Steve starts, stepping closer to you. You’re just his height, and he stares at you with an intensity you hadn’t seen before this moment.

Oh yeah, that snaps you back to attention. “You’re a fucking ignorant ass colonizer if you’re trying to convince one hundred and seventeen nations that hundreds of years of genocide - cultural and otherwise, land-grabs, the death of languages, and whatever else the United States and Britain can think of, that one white dude trying to avoid international accountability is somehow different because he thinks he’s noble,” You get up and step towards him slowly and purposefully. The clack of your heeled booties against the tiled floor makes your words seem more venomous and biting.“You knew who else thought they were being noble?”

Steve doesn’t move, just continues staring at you. His lack of emoting pisses you off even more.

“Whites when they forced Native American children into schools that made them ‘better,’ which meant being ‘whiter.’ Europeans when they kidnapped black people from Africa and converted them to Christianity. The federal government when they funded coups in Latin America. The federal government when they attached personhood to becoming a part of the war crime of which is the United States military.” You’re standing over him, now, looking directly down at him. “You’re gonna have to do a lot better than ‘this is different’ if you want to convince a hundred and seventeen nations that you’re not just another wave of destruction. Fuck over bitches, accumulate capital; Punch a hippie, save a bald eagle.

We all know how this cycle works, Rogers. “

At that moment, Steve steps back. “I need a break from this,” he growls.

For a few beats after he leaves, you just stand there. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” you grumble out to no one, not even Tony, before speeding off to the only place you know Steve won’t be.

You hold it together, barely breathing while you attempt to process what just happened. When you finally move the metal parts together to keep the door closed and hyperventilate by yourself in the stall, it takes all of you not to punch out the shitty lock.

Part of this doesn’t even seem real, talking to two of the Avengers about one of the most pivotal decisions in world history. How did you even get here? You’re from some low-income suburb nobody’s heard of and got a full-ride to Harvard on a debate scholarship and then won the National Debate Tournament your senior and junior years, getting a PhD in international relations and minoring in race and gender studies. You made connections for internships and jobs, making sure you knew the right people at the right time.

Your job became more muddled as you kept accepting whatever offer anyone was willing to give to you, a black woman in the law field. Lawyer, acting Attorney General for a few months in the middle of Obama’s second term, expert on critical race studies, international relations, and immigration law. You’ve written dozens of essays and three books on everything you could think of, trying to mend holes in the literature. Once it was about the lack of gender-based persecution in the definition of “asylum seeker,” another time about terfs in academia. You’re a tenured professor at Cornell. You’ve met every living president and been to fifteen congressional hearings.

Getting calls from important people isn’t new, neither is getting emails asking for your consultation on documents. This, though, was different. The day is hazy due to your caffeine overdoses (grading papers and being interviewed for some random law podcast had forced your normal six hours of sleep in half).

All you really remember is the email from the dean that just said “PLEASE BE IN YOUR OFFICE AT NINE PM TONIGHT” in the subject with nothing in the body. In your daze, it didn’t seem suspicious, so you just did as you were told: after your dinner with your assistant to discuss your next case, you walked into your office to see Tony Stark sitting in the chair normally reserved for whiny students or other faculty. The sight of him, the feeling of his hand in yours, sobered you like hangover remedy ever had.

You two exchanged some small talk before he sighed, looked you in the eyes, and said “I need you help with something incredibly important.” Immediately, you were on board.

For a few breaths, you just close your eyes and breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Eventually your heart rate calms and you reemerge into the conference room to find it void of the man you just took five whole minutes to mentally prepare to fight. “Where’s Rogers?”

Tony looks infuriated. A vein in his neck pops as he speaks like some cartoon villain. “Left. Took your noted copy, though. Had a few strong words for me before he left.”

Indeed, the marked up copy of the Accords is gone…along with the business card you has tucked into it. You try not to overthink the gesture, but it’s hard. It’s so hard. “Well, you know where to find me. Let me know if anything else comes up,” you tell Tony’s general direction as you grab your briefcase and attempt to stride out of the large, drafty conference room.

The long hallway is much more menacing than you remember, and as you step out of it and into the elevator the high of your last argument dissipates from your body and into the fancy marble floor. Suddenly you’re exhausted, and are struggling to keep your now-heavy eyelids open. _God_ , why do you do this anymore. You need a long vacation after this. If Neal Katyal can go to Europe right after Trump v. Hawaii, you can lock yourself in your hotel room for six days after whatever the hell this is.

When you finally stumble into to your large hotel room, you can barely get your heels off before you hear your phone ring loudly from the depths of your purse. “I _swear to God_ ” you hiss to no one, hoping it at the very least isn’t your mother (who, historically, has incredibly long phone calls).

Good news: It’s not her.

Bad news: It’s an unidentified number with a New York area code.

You pull off your jacket and throw it on the perfectly made bed, your pantyhose joining them a few seconds later. You pick up on the last ring to dead silence on the other end.

“Hello?” You ask as you pull your hair into a ponytail, unzipping your skirt before letting it drop on the ground.

A gruff voices answer with an unusually nervous tone, “Hey, yeah. It’s me. Steve.” A pause. “Steve Rogers.”

Immediately your body stiffens. “What do you want, Rogers?”

He coughs. “I, uh. I read some of your notes and have a few. I, uh, I have a few questions. Is there anywhere we can meet?”

You pull the phone away from your ear and curse. You were just about to take off your makeup, too! God, these Avengers sure are brats. “Listen, I’ll text you where my hotel room is. Meet me here in,” you check the time, groaning when you realize how late it’s become. “Just get here by eleven. After that I’m not answering the door.”

“Yes ma’am,” Steve says before hanging up.

Quickly, you type out your room number and hotel address. You have about thirty minutes to strip, take off your makeup, take a shower, get dressed, and organize your notes on the Accords before Steve gets there. Totally doable, right?

Wrong. You’re just pulling on your slightly loose pajama leggings when you hear a knock on the door. And you still have mascara remnants on your face! Why has God cursed you in this way?

You open the door for him, pulling out a chair at a table while you scramble to find a hair tie. You’re so distracted you don’t notice he had brought food and was setting it up at the table. The thick smell of Thai is making your mouth water, and in that instant you remember that you’ve barely eaten since your flight landed that night before.

“Stark told me you like this stuff. Figured food would make this conversation go smoother,” he smiles. It’s sincere, earnest, and the main reason why you decide to sit.

You’re halfway through your second serving of chicken pad thai when you finally start speaking.

“You have to understand the perspective of the rest of the world, Rog-”

“Please,” He says as he pulls open a container of spring rolls. “Call me Steve.”

“Steve,” you correct yourself before taking another bite. You talk through it, all the manners drilled into you by your parents be damned. “I need you to understand, before we do anything else, why so many countries are willing to come together and sign the Accords.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, just bites into the fried cylinders.

“Peoples, specifically indigenous ones, have seen this type of thing for centuries. An unrestricted America means genocide, literal genocide. Even if it was you, just you, you represent something more than yourself. You represent America, all of it…” Your voice slows as you can hear the familiar sound of cork leaving its glass containment. “Did you bring red wine to this meeting?”

Steve shrugs, pouring the…

You’re able to read the label as he pours. That’s the good, expensive stuff. The cheap thai and incredibly not-cheap wine…

“Steve, why did you spend over $200 on a bottle wine?”

“Because I thought you’d be nicer to me if I showed you I was serious about being here.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, accepting the glass of wine (this man even brought wine glasses). Sheesh.

“I’m not going to apologize for what I said,” you tell him before taking a sip.

Steve shrugs, taking a bite of his food. “I wasn’t asking you to.”

You sigh and try to move the topic of conversation from your continuing argument to discuss some lighter things. He asks about being a professor, about a dinner you both had to attend for the U.N. a few years ago but (fortunately) never crossed paths during, how you both think that sex trafficking is bad. Steve is nothing if not well-read, you and him gush over your shared love of poetry, art museums, beautiful photographs. Even as dinner plates are cleared and your desserts are brought in, you never seem to run out of things to talk about.

“I just, I _lived_ through that shit, you know. And now I get to watch Helen in Nowheresville, Ohio tell me she isn’t vaccinating her kid for measles because it’ll give Chester autism,” Steve scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Ugh, don’t even get me started,” You groan. “My junior year in grad school I was helping run this free flu shot clinic and several women stayed in line for hours just to tell me I was damaging America.”

You both laugh, and the conversation carries on for a long while as you both finish the bottle of wine. At the end of the bottle Steve doesn’t seem any drunker, but you’re feeling the alcohol course through your veins with every heartbeat. For a moment, a hush falls over the room as you both face each other.

Silently, your eyes move from his plush baby pink lips to his blue eyes. He seems to notice, dragging his tongue along his bottom lip. You chew on your own, weighing the options of the thing you desperately want to do:

Option One: Do nothing, order another bottle of wine from room service, get super drunk, and not remember whatever it is you and Steve talk about/do.

Option Two: Read the sexual tension in the room and take advantage of it, remember all of it tomorrow, and hide your shame under your work.

You don’t have time to fully weigh the consequences before you’re in Steve’s lap, him kissing you neck and you scratching at his chest and almost tearing from his worn shirt. Steve lifts you by your hips, clearing the empty food containers with one arm that slides across the table. Soon your shirt is off, as well as his, and your pants are pulled off with your panties shoved to the side as he fucks two fingers into you.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses. “You’re so tight.”

You moan as you hear the sound of his belt being unbuckled. You’re about to tell him you’ve got condoms in your purse, but when you lift yourself up you see he’s already started putting one on.

 _How annoying prepared this man is_ , you think.

Steve pushes your knees up to your chest, sinking into you until his hips meet the backs of your thighs. At first he’s gentle, annoying you.

“Steve,” you moan, grabbing at his chin. He stops, forced to look into your eyes. “Just fuck me.”

“Yes, _ma’am_.”

You let go of Steve’s chin, allowing him to kiss your neck and collarbone. Easily he drags in and out of you, the sound of skin hitting skin filling the room. “God you’re so tight,” he moans. “Fuckin’ jesus.”

All you can do is gasp and claw at the man on top of you, screams of pleasure caught in your throat as Steve rubs a calloused thumb over your neglected clit. By the time your first orgasm washes over you, Steve has picked you up and dropped you on the bed, flipping you on your back. With your face pressed into the pristine cotton sheets and your nails digging into the pillows, Steve continues to fuck you like the end of the world is coming with sun-up.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna _cum_ ,” He hisses into your shoulder.

“Me, too,” you sigh as you begin to rub your clit again. Ecstasy floods your veins in a way you never thought possible. Your jaw hangs open, but the only thing that comes out is the sound of your heavy breathing. At this point, you can’t even form moans, your entire life now dedicated to reaching your peak.

Steve grabs at your neck, pulling your back to his bare chest. “ _Cum with me_ ,” he commands.

“Then fuck me harder.”

In an instant your face is pressed into the mattress and you can feel Steve’ legs on either side of you as he drills into your cunt. It doesn’t take long for you to cum just from him hitting your g-spot, and as your clench around him you feel his thrusts to become sloppy and less coordinated before he stills with a deep moan.

You sink into the sheets, Steve collapsing next to you like a fallen tree. The only thing that you can hear is a sharp ringing and your deep breaths. Neither of you speak as he disposes of the condom and uses the bathroom.

He’s the first one to break the silence when he comes out, coughing to get your attention. “Can I stay?”

You huff, again, weighing the options. What could go wrong?

“Yes, sure.”

Silently, he tucks you two under the covers. You cuddle into his chest, seeking warmth in the large, once-empty bed.

Your 6:00 am alarm is the one that wakes you up, the 00s pop song snapping you awake. Steve groans, more disturbed by your movement than anything else.

He rubs his eye as he leans on one side to watch you as you check your most important phone notifications. The texts from your best friend about who was killed on Modern Family can wait, the emails from “You going back today?”

You nod. “Yeah, Stark ordered me a private plane that leaves at noon.”

“Then I guess I have time to do this…” he mumbles, ducking under the sheets. You don’t stop him, just start reading through your news alerts, other emails, texts from your mom as he kisses down the soft spots of your inner thighs. His touches are light, gentle, nothing like how harsh he was last night. It’s not unwelcome, just unfamiliar.

Steve teases you, a finger, then two, slowly entering you and crooking inside of you. Abandoning your phone you lay back and enjoy the tender moment. His mouth ghosts your clit, pressing open-mouthed kisses after a few moments. He lifts one leg over his shoulder and you move the other leg up, too to give him a better angle. One hand tangles in his short, blonde hair while the other pulls the comforter off of him. You gasp, the sight breathtaking. His morning stubble, the messy hair from last night’s antics. If last night was his thorns coming out to play, this is the rose.

Steve seems to revel in the attention, his long eyelashes and small smile adding to the performance of it all. It’s cute, really, like two star-crossed teenagers instead of two bitter rivals. You scratch at the short hairs above his neck and he almost _purrs_ , you swear it.

You sigh and play with your hardened nipples, your orgasms washing over you. Last night they felt like slaps, hard and rough but incredibly satisfying. Now they’re more like the sun on an early fall day or the initial warmth when stepping inside from a long walk outside during late winter. It’s an indescribable pleasure that you welcome.

Soon Steve needs a breather and his hands need a break. He rests his head on your mound, nuzzling your thighs. You two stay like that for longer than expected, bodies tangled together and a comfortable silence settling over you.

Eventually you have to get up, though, and pack your clothes back into your small suitcase. It’s then you realize you kept the keycard from earlier that day. In an instant you keep it, a reminder of what happened. Steve stays on the bed the whole time, watching you get dressed and put on your makeup and take a bite of the leftovers as your breakfast (thankfully left untouched in the escapades from last night, as it was placed in the fridge beforehand).

Just as you’re about to leave, Steve calls out from the bed. “Do you want to talk about-”

You cut him off. “This? The Accords? My reputation? No. This was a secret no one can know about.”

You can hear the defeat in his voice. “But was it a mistake?”

You consider that for a moment, if you regret what you did and who you did it with. “Will you change your mind about the Accords?”

“Possibly.”

You open the door staring at his naked form as you leave. “Then no.”

The plane ride is fine, as good as a fifty-one minute flight can be. As soon as you hit the ground, a driver takes you to your firm.

As you walk in, you can hear the voice of one of the Avengers you _didn’t_ talk to - Natasha - muffled by the walls of your assistant’s office. You watch it for a moment, your eyes taking in the flood of navy blue suits, the cream colored jackets, the glaring CSPAN logo, the mess of cameras, the sound of camera flashes. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath before telling her to turn it off.

“But-” She starts to protest, but immediately seals her lips. The TV goes black just as some senator from Wyoming begins to ask a question about God knows what. As you sit down at your desk, she pushes a stack of papers towards you. “Here’s the amicus brief the ACLU did for the Sessions case, and the professor from Stanford is bringing the possible interns over here, do you want me to bring in a different example case?” She taps the leather folder the sits to your left on the desk. “This one is a little…grizzly.”

You scoff, recalling the exact details of the case. _Native American woman kept hostage in a non-tribal member’s home, then sold into sex trafficking. Slit the throats of her captors, whose friend sued for damages. Pictures of the damage done to the woman’s body are included in the file._ “They’re in college, they’ve seen worse.”

A few hours later, while you’re interviewing one especially excellent candidate, your phone vibrates in your pocket. When you see it under the table, _Rogers_ flashes across the screen. You excuse yourself, walk into the hallway and accept the call.

Your voice is biting and hard. “What do you want?”

You can practically hear the man on the other end shrug. “You.”


End file.
